


So Many Lessons

by ClementineStarling



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/M, Implied abuse, M/M, More Content Info See Notes, Pre-Series, Sexual Content, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:52:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10039721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: Pre-series. Attempt at filling in the gaps and creating a back-story for Charles Vane.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to vice, jaq and scrap for feedback and encouragement and general awesomeness. You are the best. <3
> 
> Content note:  
> This fic contains referenced (sexual) abuse, implied noncon, violence, some grief/death experiences, underage sex of a somewhat incestuous nature, D/s overtones, more underage sex, more violence... I'd say nothing of it is very graphic, but still... this isn't a happy fic. Just wanted to make sure you knew.

I

The days have become like grains of sand, indistinguishable, just sleep and work and work and sleep in endless succession; they're all the same until finally one isn't.

It begins like any other with a wake-up call before dawn and a kick in the ribs for motivation when he is too slow to get up. The overseer, Roberts, has no patience for tardiness but exhaustion's hold is tenacious. Charles is still half asleep during breakfast. He knows he's got to hurry, you're either fast or go hungry, work doesn't wait, so his body moves almost out of his own accord, shovelling food into his mouth, but his mind is unwilling to leave the deep dark comfort of oblivion. There isn't much difference anymore between waking and sleeping, it all seems surreal, the island a dreamscape he's walking in broad daylight. 

The hours are blurring into a grey haze of hard labour. By the time the sun sets all he wants is to slump down next to the fireplace with a bowl of stew, then roll over and go back to sleep. Don't move, don't think, don't be. It's been like that for almost as long as he can remember and deep down he knows what it means; if this goes on the day will come when he simply won't get up, no matter how hard Roberts kicks, he'll just wait to slip back into unconsciousness.

But as night falls, black as pitch and thick as dreams, something is different, he can taste it on the tip of his tongue, sharp as gun powder. Opportunity.

Rumours ripple through camp like waves building up to a storm. Albinus has visitors and they've not just come for timber. A ship lies at anchor on their shores and her captain is hiring. He's only to take on the strongest though, the smartest, the most ambitious, and whoever wants to sign up has to prove their value first and fight, man against man.

Charles' nails dig into the palms of his hands when he steps out into the square of Albinus' makeshift citadel. Tonight it is an arena, the sand stained red with blood. 

These games may not be about killing but victories come at a price. It's a risk Charles doesn't doubt a second is worth taking. There are only so many things that can keep you alive and he's running out of hope. 

The captain sits next to Albinus, tall and imposing, broad-shouldered and black-bearded, overseeing the spectacle like a judge while his hellish jury is cheering the fighters' efforts, clearly amused by the blood-shed. The fire light paints them as demons, shadows flicker over their features revealing their true nature. They laugh even harder when they see Charles step into the circle, a ghoulish sort of glee only the captain doesn't partake in. 

His expression is calm, almost serene when he asks: “What do you want, boy?” and Charles feels the twist of panic in his belly. It takes all his courage not to turn tail and run.

The laughter resumes when he gives his answer. 

“You?” one of them says, “you don't stand a chance.”

And maybe he doesn't. Maybe he is just a child, and foolish to try, but he's determined and refusing to flinch from the captain's scrutiny, and perhaps that's what makes him decide in his favour.

He raises his hand to silence his men. “Let him try,” he says and they go quiet.

__

The first lesson of adulthood is this: A boy may cry but a man must not. Tears are a sign of weakness, and the weak don't survive. You might hurt, hurt terribly even, but you better forget about the reason for your pain if you want to stop crying. 

But how to forget when the memory is still burning inside you? It seems like an impossible task. Every time he's closing his eyes he can see it...

The sky was bright the day he lost her – the day they took her away – and the sun glittered razor-sharp on the waves.

 _Hush, don't cry_ , she said, her hand gentle against his face. 

(With his eyes closed he can still feel her fingers somehow, after all this time.)

_You must be strong._

_Will you be strong for me, Charles?_

He didn't comprehend what she asked of him and how could he, he was only a boy. But he tried. He took the pain, fashioned it into a weapon, jagged and sharp-edged. And then he learned how to use it.

__

The air is raw in his lungs, they're burning with sawdust and exhaustion, and his muscles are aching, it's almost over for him when he finally gets lucky. 

There's a sickening crunch as the bone breaks, the only sound to penetrate silence in his head, and the man drops. And so does the stone hidden in Charles' fist; it falls, slowly, quietly, and he stares at it as it comes to lie peacefully in the sand, just where it belongs. Next to it a puddle of blood spreads faster than the ground can swallow it up. He thinks of his mother, how her body must have sunk to the bottom of the ocean, just like a stone. He is calm like her. Calm like a stone that's no longer a weapon.

Around him the commotion starts, people are yelling, some rush forward to check on his opponent. He doesn't move, but Charles has no pity for him. It was obvious from the very beginning there could be no honour in this. No use fighting fair against a full-grown man. Where would have been the fairness in that anyway?

They demand he be punished for violating the rules – as Charles knew they would – but now it's the captain's turn to laugh, booming like the roll of thunder. He places a large hand on Charles' shoulder and they know better than to argue after that.

The hand lingers, not forever but long enough for Charles to fathom the weight of his decision. He's in uncharted waters now. It is a gamble – to assume what's in store for him will be better than being a slave here. But then it simply _must_ be, it can hardly be worse.

__

Pirates without a ship are birds with clipped wings, fish out of water; the land turns free men into serfs, binds them into servitude. The sea, however, is hope. The sirens' call of freedom. The day Charles was dragged away from it, that hope lay broken on the beach, a wooden shell smashed by a storm, a warning of fate not to test their luck again, or so Albinus said. Now what remains of the ship is rotting and the men have forgotten they used to be sailors. 

They've grown afraid of the water, Albinus has seen to it, for fear is the very opposite of freedom, and fear of death is the most powerful of all chains. But all men must die, and Charles dreams of his mother at night, the ocean dark as sleep around her. There is nothing to fear, she said, you don't feel pain when you're dead.

 

II

Sailing under Edward Teach is nothing like Charles imagined it to be. He is used to beatings, to deprivation and hardship, so he's surprised to realise that while the work isn't exactly easy, no one lays a finger on him and he gets his fair share of food, just like everyone else. He receives a ration of rum too, and not merely to make him pliant. (That first night on board he drinks himself into a stupor and he's not even sure why: To celebrate his escape? Or rather to quell the new fears stirring in his belly?) But to his relief it turns out he isn't required to fulfil any _special_ duties; he's just another member of the crew. Almost at least.

He is young, not as strong yet as he'll be one day, not even as strong as the weakest man on the ship, but above all he's inexperienced. They have to show him the ropes, explain the rigging, the sails, and they do so with as much patience as anyone could expect of them. They also teach him how to fight, fists, swords, pistols, and as it turns out he's rather good at it.

Perhaps that's why the captain takes a liking to him. Hardly noticeable at first. Edward Teach isn't a man to hand out favours. But Charles can feel the attention he bestows upon him nonetheless, how his eyes rest on him, not hungry or lewd but with a certain curiosity, perhaps even fondness. 

“Can you read, lad?” he asks one day, and Charles has to reply, he's not as good at it as he wished he was, so the captain takes it upon himself to teach him. It's not as much fun as the fencing lessons but there are other compensations: a glass of fine wine, a handful of salted almonds, some slices of fruit. When it comes to food Charles still feels he can't get enough, but then he's got years and years to make up for, and the captain indulges him with this odd, slightly softened expression.

__

The first time they cast anchor at Port Royal the captain has Charles accompany him to an inn he apparently frequents at a regular basis. Because of a woman, as Gordon claims. It seemed improbable at first but Charles believes it the moment he lays eyes on her. She's feisty, the sway of her hips provocative. There can't be any doubt she knows the effect she has on men, and judging from the way the captain looks at her he appreciates confidence.

“So who are you then?” she asks after she's poured them drinks. The melody of her intonation adds to her charm; it instils a certain feel of home in the heart of a weary traveller. The old country is never far away like this, not farther than the next lady's affection for purchase.

She repeats the name after him, and it's nice how it rolls off her tongue. Her smile is also nice. Charles knows it's for sale too but what isn't in a place like this? He gives her a shy smile in return and allows his eyes to flick to the low neckline of her dress before he remembers his place; at least for now she's the captain's woman and he probably shouldn't look at her like this.

She settles on the captain's lap without asking for permission; it is obvious she has done this countless times, and Charles, who's by now seen all sides of Teach, not just his treacherous calm, is impressed by how comfortable she is with him, familiar even. Most people are afraid of Teach and with good reason, but she treats him just like any other man. She doesn't award him any special attention, her gaze remains focussed on Charles, even when she addresses the captain.

“You've brought him for a reason, haven't you?” 

Teach takes his time with the response; he absent-mindedly lets a strand of her hair glide through his fingers, and his smile is lazy when he finally answers: “What do you think, Netta?”

Charles' heart is pounding so hard in his chest he fears his ribs might burst open at any moment – he's sure there's something awful afoot, some wicked plan he's got no say in – but suddenly he's not the centre of attention anymore. The captain has buried his fingers in Netta's hair and tightened his grip just enough for her to turn her head towards him, so he can brush his lips over hers – slowly, tenderly – until her mouth opens against his like a flower. 

Charles watches, he knows he should not, but he can't withstand the fascination. Teach may appear mild-mannered sometimes, but his composure is like the calm before a storm. It's hard to miss the underlying tension, the unspoken threat. Danger is rarely loud and brash Charles has come to understand, but sneaky and quiet and you don't see it coming until you've got a knife to your throat. 

And there is an undeniable lure to this danger. If you're not careful you'll get drunk on it. Charles can see it in the way Netta melts into the kiss (somehow he doubts it's only pretence; Edward Teach has a gift to inspire that kind of devotion in people), he can feel it in the dull throb of his blood, moving sluggishly through his veins. He sits, rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away. He's still not sure what his role is in all of this.

But maybe it doesn't matter.

Eventually Netta rises to her feet in a fluent, elegant motion, then reaches out her hand and he takes it without hesitation. He doesn't protest when she leads him to a room in the back nor when she puts a hand on his cheek and her lips onto his mouth. 

He's been aroused before but desire used to be laced with apprehension and dread, not just pure excitement. He feels all warm inside when she kisses him, soft and gentle and sweet, and there is no resistance to overcome, no fear to suppress, just a longing for more, and he does get his wish.

She tells him to strip and to lie down on the bed and then (after he's obliged and she's crawled over him and sank down onto his cock, so, so slow) what a pretty boy he is and how good he feels inside her. She tells him all kinds of things but soon the words become meaningless, just redundant sounds, part of a rhythm, of the constant rise and fall of her body, intermingling with gasps and pants and the muffled slaps of flesh upon flesh. 

He stares up at her, wide-eyed, as she rides him, as he follows the pace she sets with more and more ease, becoming one with the tide of their pleasure and then she takes his hand again, this time to guide it between her legs, to that hard little nub just above where they're joined. “That's it,” she says when he rubs his thumb over it, again and again until she loses herself in the sensation.

She is breathtaking like that, beautiful and terrifying, her eyes closed, her hair like waves on the ocean. She is moving faster and faster and all too soon Charles is fighting the tsunami-swell of orgasm; he wants to come so badly but he wants to see her come first even more. It's a lesson she's teaching him and he is keen not to miss its point. 

He is aching, strung to breaking point, when she's finally pushing his hands away, grinding down on him one last time as he thrusts upwards; her muscles flutter around him and Charles is done for. 

She kisses him gently on the temple afterwards, holding him close while the tension is seeping out of his body and the room blurs before his eyes. 

He must have dozed off because when he comes to, Netta isn't next to him anymore. The bed is swaying for a moment, until he realises it isn't and it's just his mind playing tricks on him. He looks around and finds the captain sitting in the armchair at the foot of the bed, half concealed by the curtains. Netta is on her knees before him, her head bobbing up and down over his lap.

Charles can only imagine how she must look, her lips stretched around the captain's cock, but the notion is enough to spark up an odd longing in his belly. He shifts, ever so slightly, to get a better view, mesmerised by the movement of Netta's head, the casual curl of the captain's fingers in her hair. 

Rough, strong fingers... Charles wonders how they would feel tightening against his scalp, how Teach might feel, hard and heavy on his tongue, how he might taste...

The captain still wears his boots and breeches but no shirt, and Charles can't resist the chance to take a closer look at his captain's torso, study the bluish tattoos and old scars, the broad shoulders and wide chest. Teach is tall and brawny, truly a man to fear, to envy, but also to desire. 

His stomach drops when he realises his curiosity has not been lost on Teach, who is watching him too, the expression on his face as unreadable as always, and a sudden heat is flaring up inside him. It must be shame, he thinks, embarrassment to be caught staring, but he already knows it's a lie. Every thrum of his heart is spelling out the truth. He wants a taste of this for himself.

__

It's another day of azure sky and blazing sunlight (another perfect day) when he's allowed to join a raiding party for the first time. Years are collapsing, crumbling away like burning paper while the past comes alive again. Charles tries not to remember (the iron-stickiness of blood on his hands, the taste of tears in his mouth, the awful gut-wrenching pain of her loss), he's fighting the surge of panic when his fingers close around his weapon; it's heavy in his hand, reassuring. Charles is gritting his teeth and doesn't think and when the others move to attack, he follows.

They're lucky, the ship's crew doesn't put up much of a fight, and they're not English either, that makes it easier too. After all their country is still at war with half of Europe, and Spain is the enemy. Not that Charles or any of his crew mates truly regarded themselves as subjects of Queen Anne but it's a good enough excuse not to feel sorry for their victims. (Charles isn't sure he is still capable of compassion anyway; yet at the same time he is also infinitely grateful there are no women on board and he doesn't have to think of _her_ and how her bones rot on the ocean ground and how she's become one with the sea. Every wave against the ship's hull a message and a greeting. _Come to me Charles_ , they seem to say, _Charles, Charles, Charles._ )

Not every capture of a ship goes as smooth as the first one but Charles is getting used to it after a while and the memories fade and old pain hardens into new armour. He fights as though bullets and blades would glance off him like water from a bird's plumage and it doesn't take long until he's earned himself a reputation. 

“You want to be careful,” Teach says one day, “infamy comes at a price” but the words are accompanied by a cordial slap on the back and his tone isn't without pride. 

That's when Charles finally summons up all his courage. He takes a step forward, a step that brings him closer than is appropriate. Too close for his intention to be misunderstood.

Their first kiss isn't gentle, not at all like first kisses are supposed to be – neither tentative nor cautious nor slow – but Charles wouldn't want it any other way. He spent weeks and weeks thinking about this moment, ever since that visit to Port Royal, and Teach doesn't disappoint him; he isn't wasting time on niceties, Charles has offered and so he takes. He grabs a handful of Charles' hair and pulls and just as the pain registers, his lips close over Charles' mouth, swallowing his gasp of surprise.

He leaves no doubt about the claim he lays on him – Charles' mouth is swollen, when Teach breaks away, his breath coming in ragged pants. “So this is what you want, boy?” Teach asks remarkably unflustered and Charles only nods. He's choosing this. It's not bondage when you choose.

 

III 

Charles Vane is used to being stared at. He's first in line to become Teach's right hand man (not that a vacancy would be imminent), youngest man to ever captain a pirate ship, and his reputation precedes him. People say he knows neither fear nor remorse, and least of all mercy, that he killed a hundred men and raided dozens of ships. The longer the list of his alleged deeds becomes, the further it leans towards the impossible, as Jack never tires to point out. Every once in a while he will roll his eyes and say something like “Seriously, Charles, how stupid are these people? Can't they do the maths? You're far too young to have been at Cartagena.” But then, Jack is about ten times smarter than most men and Charles is unconcerned about the accuracy of the stories – being feared is good when you're a pirate. 

But that's perhaps the most remarkable thing about this particular stare: it's not fearful or even timid, but arrogant to a degree Charles has rarely been exposed to. She's only a girl but she behaves as if she owned him. Her eyes rake over his body as if he was a piece of meat. He's seen that look on women before, mostly on the faces of the wives of plantation owners inspecting men on the slave market. There is something about a person for sale that seems to allow these fine women to forget all usual propriety. Perhaps because to them a slave is an animal rather than a man. But Charles Vane is not a slave anymore; not even a boy. He's a grown man with a nasty reputation. 

The girl seems utterly unimpressed though; her eyes follow the glistening droplets of water as they're seeking their way through a landscape of rippling muscle, her gaze unabashed, even though he wears nothing but a few pieces of jewellery. Usually no one takes much notice when Charles goes for a swim; perhaps it's because they see each other naked all the time, perhaps they just know better than to stare at his cock – or the finger-shaped bruises on his hips. But that's exactly where the girl's gaze is lingering, even as he gets closer.

“See something you like, princess?” he says when he has almost reached her, and her gaze snaps up to his face.

“And what if?” she says, staring right at him. She stands her ground when he takes another step towards her.

She is pretty, but so are many girls, it's not what makes her special and certainly not what makes her believe she can behave like this without consequences. 

He takes another step towards her, abruptly this time, and that finally has an effect. She flinches, barely noticeable but Charles has been watching out for it, so the small jerk doesn't escape him. But that's about all the weakness she allows herself. He is close enough she has to tilt back her head a little to look him in the eye but she still doesn't seem intimidated. Her lips are parted a fraction, just enough to draw his attention, and Charles isn't sure whether it's surprise or invitation.

“So what do you want?” Charles purrs.

But before she can answer someone calls for her. “Miss Eleanor!” A man is hurrying towards them, clearly unamused, and Charles takes an involuntary step back. It's one of Guthrie's men, Mr Scott, which can only mean the girl is Richard Guthrie's daughter. No wonder she behaves as if she owns the place. 

“Miss Guthrie,” Charles says with a mock bow, “what a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

He retreats before Mr Scott can reach them, unwilling to suffer his righteous indignity. It's not Charles' fault the girl wandered off, if anyone could be blamed it would Mr Scott himself, but Charles doubts even the most dedicated of chaperones could prevent Eleanor from doing what she wants, and be it fling herself at the very first cut-throat she meets.

“What was that?” Jack asks a few moments later when Charles grabs the towel from his hand without bothering to stop in his tracks. 

“None of your business,” he says, walking in long strides towards his tent while Jack struggles to keep up.

__

They do fuck eventually, months later. 

Charles put it off as long as he could, but in the end, he isn't a saint and Eleanor is stubborn. She pushed and pushed and pushed until he finally gave in. It's not a good idea per se but he's not famous for being reasonable either.

Eleanor is rough, as rough as Charles is gentle. It doesn't take a genius to comprehend she hasn't done this before and he's determined not to hurt her, even though she is testing his patience. It's not only that she likes to bite and scratch like a wildcat – she also seems keen to get it over with, have him inside her and rid herself of that last semblance of innocence. 

“Not so fast,” he has to say, then hold her down with actual force, so he can lick her open, slowly, carefully, until she's sopping wet and half delirious.

“You sure you want this?” he asks after he's crawled back up between her legs. She's come twice already at that point, but of course she wants more, and this time Charles is only too happy to oblige. She's such a pretty thing, flushed and glowing, the golden hair spread like a halo around her head. 

“Fuck me already, Charles,” she spits when he slides into her, too slow, too cautious for her tastes. But fuck, he's got to take a moment to get used to her around him, so tight, so wet. She clutches at his back, her finger nails are sharp, sharp enough to hurt, he's sure she'll leave marks, and he's also sure she's doing it on purpose. 

A lot of people have left their mark on Charles, most of them without his consent, but there are some traces that are clearly fresh and clearly not injuries of battle: love bites at the base of his neck and along the collarbone, another set of finger-shaped bruises on his hipbones, already fading. Earlier Eleanor run her fingertips over them with a frown on her face, and he is sure she disapproves. He would have thought it went without saying that he can't be hers no more than she can be his, but he should have known all Guthries are greedy.

__

Charles knows hunger, the dull ache of an empty stomach, the gnawing sensation, and also the nigh-swoon of starvation, and he knows it well. But hunger can be so much more than just a physical need for nourishment; sometimes hardly less base, like the desire for drink and drugs, for women and gambling, sometimes more elaborate, like the craving for gold, the thirst for blood, an appetite for power. Hunger can grow into greed and greed is corrosive, he's seen men eaten alive by their desires. 

So he should have been more wary perhaps, of how he felt about Eleanor...

__

England's influence in New Providence is fading. It has always been weak. There have never been enough ships and soldiers to keep the vast territories under control and without control the rot is setting in and civilisation is crumbling. Corruption ruled in Nassau long before the Spanish and the French attacked, too many governors tried to enrich themselves in too little time. Jack rattles off their names, Bridges, Jones, Trott, Webb, Elding, Hasket, Lightfood, Birch and the latest, Richard Thompson. Nine men in not even two decades.

Most of them were, what Jack calls for lack of better description, cooperative. A modest sum bought their indifference about certain kinds of trades plied on the island. Now, Governor Thompson is a different matter. Perhaps he felt the need to distinguish himself from his predecessor, perhaps he thought a display of severity would earn him a better price, for at first he appeared to try hard to regain control, too hard maybe, and there are men in Nassau who don't like to be threatened. It still could have worked out if he hadn't done something even more foolish – he didn't wait for an offer, he bluntly _asked_ for the bribes. Not just Bellamy and Jennings, who were known to be reasonable. He asked Teach too. And he didn't ask as nicely as he should have either.

Teach, to no one's surprise but Thompson's, laughed him straight in the face, which should have been answer enough. Yet somehow it wasn't. 

“You misunderstand how this works,” he said when Thompson refused to reconsider his demands, “I was prepared to offer you a gift, not as a tribute, not as taxes but as a symbol of my appreciation for your hospitality on this beautiful island. But if you think I can be blackmailed into paying protection money you are very much mistaken about who you're dealing with.”

If Thompson had had any sense, he would have left it at that, but he doesn't. On the contrary, he thinks it a good idea to have five men arrested, among them Gordon, Teach's quartermaster, which prompts not a delivery of a ransom but a crisis meeting being called up on the Revenge. The attendees are conflicted about what to make of his actions; Jennings claims it's an apparent (and desperate) attempt of Thompson to lend some weight to his demands, Bellamy thinks he's just suicidal. “It's the heat, it can do strange things to your mind,” he says and Charles has to agree with him. Especially given the letter that accompanied the arrest. 

Teach's face remains dead calm when he reads it. Without a word he hands it to Charles. Surely the sum he demands in exchange for the prisoners is insignificant in comparison to the lives of five men, Thompson writes. 

There is no need for further explanations. Everyone in the room understands that war has been declared. The only question is how it will be fought, and Teach seems in no mood to discuss the details. He's summoned them to ensure their allegiance, not to ask them for advice. “Send word to Thompson,” he says. “I'll give him a day to leave the island. If he's still in Nassau after sunset tomorrow, he will regret it.”

“What do you think he's going to do?” Jack asks once Teach has dismissed them. “Kill him?”

Charles shrugs. “Unless Thompson comes to his senses, what choice does he have?”

Jack gives a snort that could be anything from agreement to dissent and takes a gulp from his wine bottle before he passes it on to Charles. They're still aboard the Revenge, waiting for further instructions, and Jack is getting nervous. He's not a coward but he isn't a soldier either. His tendency to overthink things is a poor premise for a fight. Not for a battle perhaps, but the sort of conflict that lies ahead won't require much scheming on Jack's part, it will be man against man, pistols and blades and blood and pain, and wasting too much thought on that beforehand doesn't help.

Charles wishes he could think of something to say, something comforting, but he hasn't Jack's gift for words and probably nothing dulls that sharp edge of fear more effectively than drinking anyway, so he takes a sip from the bottle and hands it back to Jack, then returns to staring across the water. They're quiet for a while. The setting sun casts its last light over Nassau's roofs, painting them golden. It looks almost pretty like that, like palaces not shacks and tents. Home. It's an unfamiliar word, but it feels warm and secure and motivational.

“We'll have Nassau to ourselves again, free from English rule,” Charles says. “Free from this greedy fuck of a governor. That's worth fighting for, don't you think?”

“They'll just send another one. And then another, believe me, Charles, there will be no shortage of candidates.” 

Jack sounds resigned rather than emboldened but Charles can't let this stand. He grips Jack's upper arm to emphasise his words. 

“I am not afraid of England, of Queen Anne, the Royal Navy or the fucking governor. They should be afraid of us. They should be fucking terrified.”

Jack squints at him. “Fuck, Charles,” he says, “you can't--” and then he pauses, frowns. “Perhaps you're right. Perhaps, if we make it too costly for them to hold this island, they will give it up.” He rubs his hand over his face as if to rid him of the ideas that Charles conjured up in his head and he's careful not to meet his eye when he says aloud what he's thinking.

Everyone knows Edward Birch turned tail almost the moment he set foot on New Providence, apparently so dispirited by what he found that he would not even give governing Nassau a try, and they've won enough victories by now to have witnessed the wondrous effect of fear. If people are afraid enough, they will surrender without resistance. Terror could indeed be the key to unlocking Nassau's chains.

That's what he tells Teach, later, when silence has fallen over the ship and he has slipped back into the great cabin, leaning casually against the desk, about a hand-width from Teach.

And Teach looks at him with the usual expression that gives nothing away of what he's thinking. “So this is what you suggest?” he says after a moment. 

Instead of an answer Charles reaches out to trail his fingers over Teach's neck, down to his collarbone, inches above his heart. He doesn't know what makes him do it – usually they're not particularly tender with each other and Teach wouldn't allow anyone else to touch him like that; perhaps it's the idea of home that makes him sentimental. It's good to feel Teach's skin under his fingertips, warm, firm muscle, the beat of a fierce heart. It's better still to have him looming over him, sucking bruises into his shoulder. Charles wraps his legs around him to keep him close, digs his fingers into his back and thinks he can't possibly be more home than right now.

__

Edward Teach can be ruthless, and Charles knows it. He has always known, ever since that first day on Albinus' island, and over the years he's seen proof of what he's capable of, witnessed countless examples of his brutality and yet he isn't prepared for what Teach chooses to do when Thompson doesn't leave. Charles doesn't even hear about it until the next morning, and once he does he wonders whether his deployment the previous night, which took him away from the governor's mansion to a different battle-ground, had been borne from kindness, meant to spare him the qualms of conscience or from the anticipation of his resistance. Charles doesn't know what he would have done if he'd been there...

It's Jack who fetches him and leads him to the square, chalk-white and unusually quiet, but neither as pale nor as silent as the governor's son. The boy lies broken on the ground, his face white as fresh linen, bled-out, even his eyes are pale and glassy as buttons. He's washed out like a dream, drained of all colour. A colour that used to be life has dyed his nightshirt in shades of red and brown. Beside him his mother is sprawled out like an oversized doll, her porcelain hands reaching for him.

The past has been buried for a long time but not long enough for Charles not to make the connection, not to see himself in the boy. It could have been his fate too.

“What have we done?” Jack whispers beside him, “What the fuck have we done, Charles?”

__

It was Israel Hands.

Charles isn't sure whether to be thankful for that. _Not Teach_ , he thinks, _it wasn't Teach._ But wasn't it though? 

No one on their crew would commit such an act without having to fear retribution – not so much for the crime itself but for what it is meant to be, provocation, deterrent, symbol – unless Teach gave, at the very least, his explicit permission. It's hardly a secret that under the circumstances Hands must have acted on Teach's orders. 

But why didn't do it himself? 

“Why do you think?” Jack asks in an exasperated tone when confronted with Charles' pondering, as though even a child would know the answer and when Charles doesn't respond he rolls his eyes and goes on: “Because it was an execution and someone else had to be the hangman and bear the shame.” Jack cocks his head when he sees Charles' puzzled expression.  
“You didn't think it was a reward, did you?”

Charles lets his gaze travel through the dimly lit guest room of the inn to where Israel Hands is holding court among his supporters. 

Jack chuckles, but there's little humour in his laugh. “Teach didn't name Hands his second in command with this move,” he says. “If anything he declared _you_ his heir,” and at Charles' grunt of disbelief he adds: “Just wait and see.”

 

IV

Word gets around of a new arrival. An extraordinary man, even by Nassau's standards. Not a young anymore, not like Charles is young at least, but still burning with the passion of youth. He is educated, which is rare, and he speaks of freedom, which isn't, but his words are powerful, powerful enough to attract attention. Charles hears him speak on evening at the inn, of another world, a republic of pirates, a place where all men are equal, free of the yoke of queens and masters, and he can feel it resonate in his chest, a buzzing warmth, excitement, perhaps the first smouldering of rebellion.

He's got flame red hair, that arsonist, and he goes by the name of Flint. 

The disquiet starts almost as soon as he's set foot on the island, and none of the captains is too happy about it, but there is little that can be done without resorting to drastic means, so hope it will blow over – usually big mouths quickly choke on their own false promises. It turns out Flint is an exception from the rule. It takes him but a couple of weeks to find himself a crew and a ship, a few more to secure them their first sizeable prize. 

Upon their return his men have gold in their pockets and the Walrus is heavily laden, not exactly with fairy tale treasures but cargo valuable enough to buy the Guthries' goodwill and having the Guthrie's favour is the best insurance against unfortunate accidents Nassau has to offer. 

“Don't scare him off, Charles,” Eleanor says one night, trailing her fingers over his naked chest, “we could use another reliable earner, Naft and Lawrence aren't much use, Bellamy is reckless and Hornigold--” She sighs. They both know Hornigold is a decent enough captain but being a pirate requires more skills than just navigating a ship and leading a crew. You have to be willing to take a risk and make enemies. Flint on the other hand isn't in Nassau biding his time, hoping for an eventual return to England; he's invested in the future of this place, that much is certain, although Charles doubts what he has in mind will be as much to Eleanor's liking as she thinks.

“Doesn't your father disapprove of his rabble-rousing?”

“My father isn't the governor. He isn't sworn to uphold the law, he's only a merchant trading goods. What could he possibly do about such speeches?” She gives him such a mock-innocent flutter of her lashes, it makes him laugh. Of course the Guthries know just one loyalty, and it's to money, not to the crown.

“Besides, wasn't it you who told me that men are working so much harder when they're free to pursue their own ends? So I don't see how that would conflict with our interests, on the contrary.” She purses her lips in a smug little smile, and there's something about her smugness that tips Charles' mood.

It takes a moment until he realises the feeling for what it is; it's the sensations that register first, the dull emptiness in his head, the urge to clench his fists, a strange burning in his stomach. It shouldn't surprise him that Eleanor's perspective is limited to only seeing her own advantage, that's who she is, he shouldn't harbour illusions about it, and yet it makes him incredibly angry. 

“Rich people never care about anyone but themselves,” Jack says at least once every week, and Charles is inclined to agree, though sometimes it's hard not to believe in exceptions.

“Love does make us blind,” Teach said once and Charles is still wondering if he talked about Charles or himself.

“I have to go,” Charles says, tearing himself away from Eleanor's touch, which is still, despite everything, so very alluring. He could just do the opposite of leaving, push her back into the sheets and settle between her legs again, grasp a handful of her hair, but he doesn't. Instead he gets up, puts on his trousers, picks up his clothes and is out of the door before Eleanor has a chance to protest. 

“You could fuck any woman on the goddamn island, Charles,” Jack says in his head, “why in God's name does it have to be her?” 

He asked him that countless times already and he knows the answer of course – Jack can put two and two together, he's smart. As smart as Teach is strong. But Flint is both of those things and that's what makes him interesting. 

__

Charles tried to talk to Teach about Flint; not in so many words, Charles isn't one for big speeches, but that doesn't mean he's not worrying about things. Teach however seemed unperturbed.

“Let him,” he said, “weak men flock to such promises but weak men are no threat.” 

Yet it turned out it weren't just the weak who joined Flint's cause. The first to side with him was Gates and Gates isn't weak. He's too smart for his own good and the fact he chose to get Flint his first command, ship and crew and everything, made already for a huge incentive. It didn't hurt either that Flint offered better conditions than most captains; more rights, more promises, a larger share of the loot, and Vane can't help but admit it was a good move. The deal attracted some extraordinary men. There's DeGroot, who's a brilliant sailing master, Randall, an accomplished boatswain, the Asian man, Joji, who's as deadly as he's quiet, and Joshua, one of Mosiah's most fearsome fighters. 

Teach only raised an eyebrow in disdain when he heard of it but Vane has trouble finding that same sense of indifference.

__

Flint is tapping his fingers on the leather volume in front of him, absent-mindedly, impatient. Charles can't decipher the title from where he stands, the table Flint's sitting at is in an especially dark corner of the inn, but he's sure he has seen that very same book before. Flint seems to take it with him where ever he goes, like an edition of the bible, which – Charles is pretty sure about that at least – it is not.

“Is that the ledger containing the names of the men who sold you their souls?” he says with a grin. There are men on the island who seriously believe Flint is in league with the devil. He's not the only pirate to ever win this dubious honour; there are similar rumours about Teach, not to forget the stories they still tell about Israel Hands, but there's something about Flint that makes these tales more colourful, and he's done nothing to discourage them, on the contrary.

Accordingly he says nothing in response to Charles' question, only looks up at him as if expecting an explanation.

“Some here are superstitious,” Charles adds with a shrug.

“But you are not?” Flint has stopped tapping his fingers against the book and awards Charles his undivided attention. 

“I do not believe you're the devil, no.”

“So what do you believe in?”

Charles shifts his weight from one feet onto the other. “Freedom, I suppose.”

Flint nods. He stretches out his leg to push a chair towards Charles. 

“Have a drink with me,” he says.

__

For all his talk about freedom and liberty Flint is awfully surprised when Charles shoves him up against a wall and kisses him to shut him up. He doesn't resist – Charles half anticipated a punch – but for one long moment he doesn't return the kiss either but Charles doesn't hesitate, he wants this, and he can be persuasive. He just grabs a handful of Flint's lovely red hair and keeps on kissing him until his surprise is melting away, until he is opening his mouth like a drowning man gasping for air and lets himself be swallowed up by Charles' desire.

There is something in Flint's touch that is new, unfamiliar. Charles is accustomed to passions sweeping across him like a hurricane, and he'll bend to them like palm tree in a storm, revel in their intensity. He's surrendered himself to Teach, body and soul, and gifted Eleanor his heart, and they wouldn't have settled for less, but Flint is different. Flint doesn't ask for anything. 

When they're together, they are, without reservations or regrets, and Flint is committed to make Vane fall apart, have him writhe and gasp under his hands and mouth, and Vane is only too keen to return the favour. But when they're apart, they're just men going about their business, captains of rival crews, they're almost strangers, and in retrospect their encounters seem like strange dreams and fleeting urges. 

And yet something of Flint manages to slip under Charles' skin and linger there. 

It's merely little things not grand feelings, and maybe that's the trick, that what they have with each other is not about gestures Charles would be expected to reciprocate, it's not about promises of love and faith and loyalty, but there are small details, impressions that leave their mark on him: Some thing or other Flint says about human nature, ever so casually (as if it were just self-evident); how he squints into first light of day (as if it were a personal insult the night can't go on forever); how he puts his hand to Charles' jaw before he kisses him (not like he owns him, not like that at all, but not apologetic either; it's an offer between equals and Charles could simply refuse if he wanted). 

For as long as Charles can remember he's seen life as a series of struggles, a lonely, violent matter that ultimately leads up to death and accordingly he thought of fighting and fucking as the cornerstones of survival, the basic principles of living, often too similar to distinguish. In Charles' world there have always been winners and losers, conquerors and the conquered, and while there have also been pacts they've never been contracts between equals. Teach is a master, however voluntarily he serves him, and the Guthries are as much rulers of this island as every legitimate governor ever was.

But now, when Flint holds him down, it's not so much to use him as to enjoy him properly because Charles always finds it difficult to lie still when Flint is closing his mouth, wet and eager, around his cock, so what else could he do but keep him immobile? And Charles lets him, not because he has to, they're evenly matched in strength, and Flint has no more power over Charles than Charles has over Flint, but because he wants to lose himself in the sensation, in the slick heat and low groans and surging pleasure. 

There is, for all of Flint's aversion to the society he comes from, something so utterly civilised about him, he stands out against Nassau's thugs and thieves like a diamond from pebbles; he _shines_ and Charles finds himself unable to look away. He understands the hate, the fury, the thirst for revenge Flint proclaims, all sentiments he has felt himself, but he never knew this trust in reason, that hope for change, the aspiration of equality. The image he paints of a Nassau that could be – free and strong and independent – is so much more alluring than any promise of wealth ever could be.

Charles doesn't long for security but for this world that they could, if Flint is right, bring into existence. Maybe it is possible to lose the shackles and bonds of the Empire, maybe the vision can come true. And if anyone can do it, it's Flint. He's educated – not self-taught like Jack, or mostly practical like Teach – he is connected to a wisdom that goes deeper than self-interest, a human sentiment that deep down they all have in common.

“We can build something here,” Flint says, “together”, and Charles believes it. It is, perhaps, the first thing he ever truly believes.

__

“The only question that matters is this,” Flint whispers one day in the silver light of dawn: “Who are you?” He is touching Charles' face, gently but determined not to allow him turn away from the question. “Are you a prince, destined to inherit a kingdom? Or are you a free man, intent on deciding your own fate?”

__

They're four at the heart of the conspiracy, James Flint, Benjamin Hornigold, Eleanor Guthrie and Charles Vane, and Charles knows, Teach would kill them all without a moment's hesitation and raze Nassau to the ground, just to punish them for their coup, if it weren't for the fact Teach regards him as something like a son. 

He can see the storm in Teach's eyes when they confront him at last and he comprehends the full scope of their – of his – betrayal, darkness and wrath and also pain, but they don't have to stab him twenty-three times, or whatever Flint may have had in mind. Teach doesn't pay them any attention, he just looks at Charles and asks: “So this is what you want?”

He nods, unable to speak, but Eleanor takes a step forward to stand at his side. 

“We don't need a king,” she declares.

Teach doesn't even deign her as much as a glance. “They will betray you, Charles,” he says and there's such heart-wrenching sadness in his voice, Charles almost loses his nerve but Eleanor takes his hand and Charles knows it's too late to reconsider.

Teach looks at him for another long moment before he finally seems to have made up his mind. “Very well then,” he says, and: “Good luck,” and nothing more. He just turns around on his heels and leaves, without an argument, without a fight. 

And Charles deems himself lucky for a while.

But Teach was right; it doesn't take long until they betray him. They all want to be caesar in Teach's stead, and no one more so than Flint.

~

**Author's Note:**

> Post scriptum:  
> I guess it's obvious that this is more of a draft than anything else, but I'm just not able to commit to longfic-projects, so I hope the snippets were sufficiently understandable even though so many things remain unsaid and so many stories untold. It's apparently a bit of a niche interest to focus on Vane and Teach but in case you, dear unknown reader, are intrigued by something I touched upon and feel like using an idea for your own fic or if something just fundamentally disagrees with you and you want to tell me – feel free to do so, I'd love to see more takes on the pre-series years and I'm always up for a chat. :D


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